Pegasus Spring 2017

PEGASUS

Will Russell | Will Rhodes | Michael Schlarbaum W.D. Ehrhart | Christian Sarian | Jared Hoefner Jack Biddle | Garrett Johnson | Troy Barnes Chris Williams | Myles Scott | Dan Whaley

Tyler Campbell | Robb Soslow | Yeshwin Sankuratri

Spring 2017

William Merhige | Connor Lees | Jeffrey Bozzi

Issue 33

Shea Dennis | Alec Manko | Devin Weikert

The Haverford School

Troy Gibbs-Brown | Caleb Clothier | Jose Martinez

Pegasus

Gavin Burke | Biagio DiSimone | Intel Chen

George Rubin | Taj Bland | David Bunn Zoe Blatt | Cameron Hoorfar

Pegasus | Spring 2017

The Haverford School Issue No. 33

“You’ve got to snap the quip to make the Pegasus prance!”

- Robert Frost

The Haverford School 450 Lancaster Ave., Haverford, PA, 19041 610-642-3020 || www.haverford.org Upper School Population: 438 || Issues Printed: 150

Letter from the Editors

While looking through the past few issues of Pegaus, wandering the halls and gazing upon past layouts, we came to a realization: many of our layouts are exactly alike. Someone could pull out a random piece and would not be able to tell which issue — or even which year — where the piece could be found. This issue, we set out to change our look.

Art and literature thrives because of the risk taking of its creators; monotony is the ultimate killer of creativity. Recognizing this, we felt that we could not be a place that effectivly honor the amazingly talented creators and crations while continuing to play it safe in regards to our layouts.

We designed this issue of Pegasus wanting to match the risks our artists take with their pieces. Everything (from the piece combinations, to the difference in color schemes, to the front cover) was made with this in mind. While our past designs have worked in the past to great success, we still wanted to dare to be different.

Even though we would like to take all of the credit for the idea, none of this would be possible without our wonderful faculty advisors Mr. Dan Keefe and Mrs. Taylor Smith-Kan, the many teachers that have fostered a world of creativity in our school, and the students who put the time and effort in to craft beautiful pieces of art. Thank you for reading.

Regards, Jack and Robb

PROSE

Table of

P. 6

Memories — In Memory of Bill Waterson Will Russell

P. 10

How to Date a Dead Girl Jack Biddle

P. 12

Heads Will Roll for a Couple of Coins Chris Williams

P. 14

The Shantitown Operahouse Michael Schlarbaum

P. 24

Chapter 1: Commute Caleb Clothier

P. 25

Chapter 1: A Light in the Black Jose Martinez

P. 31

Vespae’s Last Yeshwin Sankuratri

P. 42

The Trail Robb Soslow

P. 46

Boston at 1:45 in the Morning Shea Dennis

ART PORTFOLIOS P. 54

Devin Weikert

P. 55

George Rubin

P. 56

Taj Bland

P. 57

David Bunn

P. 58

Ms. Zoe Blatt

P. 59

Cameron Hoorfar

Graphic Novel P. 48

Story of Me Alec Manko

Contents POETRY P. 7

Autobiography Michael Schlarbaum

P. 8

Old Men Body Surfing W.D. Ehrhart

P. 8

The Three Traits Christian Sarian

P. 9

Flames Jared Hoefner

P. 12

My Wife, My Love Troy Barnes

P. 17

Ode To Bacon Gavin Burke

P. 17

The Social Pyramid Biagio DiSimone

P. 27

African Amerikkkan Tyler Campbell

P. 28

Six Grand Censorships Robb Soslow

P. 30

Unborn Michael Schlarbaum

P. 40

Splintered Bow Connor Lees

P. 41

Adventures at Wallmart Jeffrey Bozzi

WILL RUSSELL

MEMORIES — IN MEMORY OF BILL WATTERSON

Rowing Will Rhodes

“The pink minivan pulls into the driveway slowly, the engine running for a couple of seconds before the owner turns it off. His blonde hair is shaggy but neat. His suit is physically and emotionally rumpled from a day filled with work.

He pops the trunk, pulls out an old cardboard box, and shuffles to the front door.”

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The screen door opens for him. A pretty thirtysomething woman with a bobbed haircut gives him a sad smile as she watches him shoulder his way into the house, placing the box on the kitchen table after asking his youngish daughter to move her coloring upstairs. He waits until he hears the door to her room latches, and he starts to cry, silently.

“Calvin, Honey...” his wife says, wrapping her arms around him. He clasps back, shoulders heaving as he weeps into her shoulder.

“It was the last box, Suz. It’s all cleared out. This is it -” Calvin glances at the beaten up cardboard “- this was it from Dad’s attic.”

Suz gives him a kiss on the forehead. “I know you miss him. We all do. We loved your dad.” She gives him one last squeeze, holding his hand as they turn towards the box.

Suz starts unfolding the top flap, pulling all four back.

She hears a gasp. Calvin slowly roams his hands around the edges of the lid, his lip trembling. In faded sharpie, sloppy handwriting appears on the brown material labelling it “transmogrifier.”

Calvin stands upright, diving into the box. He tearfully starts to unpack items: a red hood and mask, a stack of Captain Napalm comics, old squirt guns. Plastic dinosaurs, toy cars, and crumpled up designs for snow forts build up in piles around him as he digs towards the bottom of the box.

A hand whips to his mouth, and once again he is wracked by sobs. He reaches down tenderly and picks up a small stuffed tiger. Orange fur is dulled to a bronze, the fuzz around his mouth stained from old tuna-fish sandwiches. Calvin lifts him into the air, cradling him in his arms.

“H-Hobbes?” he says quietly.

The stuffed tiger doesn’t move. They stand in silence.

Calvin whispering the tiger’s name over and over, waiting for it to respond.

“Dad?” comes a young voice behind him.

“Yes, Rosalyn?” Calvin says, wiping his nose hastily on this sleeve.

The little girl, no older than seven, maybe, stands with her hand on her hip. “Whatcha got there?” She points to the tiger.

Calvin pauses. “An old friend. His name is -” “Locke,” she interjects. “His name is Locke.” She holds her hands out. “Can I have him dad?”

He smiles, handing her the stuffed tiger. As she carries him up to her room, Calvin almost notices a wink coming from the plastic eye.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY Michael Schlarbaum

I was raised on a lie by a woman so strong I sometimes fear her.

I have played on sun baked earth, Red dirt crunching under plastic cleats, Balls hit over the fence; I ran victory laps back then.

My world has been shattered once before, by a man who went west like a pioneer.

The gold was gone by the time he got there, only a woman remained.

Twice I have fallen so hard that I thought I might drown, only to have my love shoved back in my face with kind words.

Three times I have drowned in grief.

Now I have fallen for someone who loves me back She blossoms like a flower, but the fall is coming. I fear the cold.

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OLD MEN BODY SURFING W.D. Ehrhart

Men take pride in three things, wine, women, and the open road, which is enough to fully satisfy one man.

for Joe & Dale & Me You should have seen the three of them: sixty-five, seventy, maybe older, pot-bellied, gray-haired, wrinkled like God had given them skin two sizes too big, riding wave after wave after wave all the way in to the surf line, giving each other the thumbs up, then doddering back into the ocean to catch the next wave. Shameless exhibitionists. Acting like kids.

One of them had a ponytail, for chrissake.

If they can remember how joyful each one was, then seek to go for it once more, wine, women, and the open road.

But amidst these similarities, the differences are seen as well, the grapes, the kisses, and the long highway, each one used to resemble the meaning of each one.

Why is this the case you may ask?

If a man were not to enjoy one of these

things, he would be considered left out.

So enjoy it while you can,

for one day, all these things will depart

from us, leaving one empty in themselves, lacking something.

Wine, women, and the open road, the three things that men take pride in, but once one of these things departs from us, that is when a man realizes he is gone.

Christian Sarian

The Three Traits Pegasus Magazine

Flames

Bu

an s e m che On proa ap

I am d. re Igno

sp t a of ark lig ht .

By Morning I am

As the Night Drags On I grow hungry. My body flickers As it grows Cold. I try in vain to wake the . ers m, h Ot crea Is

With

but it is As if all the oxygen

At Night I Blaze Light fills the area as I stand at my place. They throw sticks at me and jeer at the yet others. spe no on aks e to m e

I feel I a m a pa rt of the gro up

E se very wa em on rm s s e o

Jared Hoefner

wa

sg

on

e.

my last breath I Am stamped

To the ground as my body splatters against The earth. All that’s left Is ash And air.

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Corpse Garrett Johnson

How to Date a Dead Girl JACK BIDDLE You will have to pick her up at her house; it is the gentlemanly thing to do after all, especially since she cannot drive herself. The whole drive down you question your decision.

Did you dress too fancy for her? Will everyone else laugh when they see you together? Will they know it’s your first date? Why did you decide to ask her out in the first place? You arrive at the house, yet refuse to knock on

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the door or ring the doorbell. You have never met her father, but you are sure that he will not like you, so you hop the fence into her house to tell her you are ready to leave. The only problem is you do not know which room is hers. You scour the house, looking at the rooms, which all have names written on the doors for some reason, until you finally manage to find it without disturbing anyone.

You look at her for the first time in the new light and are amazed by how beautiful she is.

So you take her by the hand, help her over the front gate because neither of you wants you to meet her father, and get into your car.

You take her out to dinner, and you are happy because you only have to pay for one person. The restaurant will want to charge you for two. Explain your situation to your waiter — if he has not called the cops within the first thirty seconds, you will get away without paying for her meal, and maybe even yours too.

Next, you take her to a movie. Pick a horror movie; you know they are the best to watch on dates. But whatever you do, do not pick a zombie movie. That will hit a little too close to home. Plus, the hero always ends up the same way: scared and alone. Well, or dead.

You pay for the tickets because that is what a gentleman does, but you do not make her pay for food since you just ate. She is not hungry anyway. You walk into the theater and pick two seats in the back row; you will have your choice since the theater is practically empty for B-list horror. You can try out all of your moves you learned from the cliché movies that you watch in your room alone. She does not complain — talking in a movie theater is frowned upon anyway.

You take her back to your place, sensing that the mood has gotten romantic, and wait for her to undress. She does not; remember that her arms cannot move. You think that removing them for her would be a massive breach of privacy, especially since you are unsure of yourself anyway. You think it would be best to bring her back home, so you take her hand one last time and lead her back to your car. You help her back over the fence, guide her back to her room, and rebury her under the ground you had displaced only a few hours earlier. Without a final look, you leave, feeling as alone as you were when she was by your side.

“Without a final look, you leave, feeling as alone as you were when she was by your side.”

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Heads Will Roll for A Couple of Coins CHRIS WILLIAMS Woman, reading a periodical, sits alone at a table inside a house.

MY WIFE, MY LOVE TROY BARNES My wife, my love, Laying here next to you makes me so happy.

Rolling over and seeing your long eyelashes, perfect lips, and bright blue eyes, You are the air to my lungs.

We work together as one.

Recently the air has gotten thin.

We used to talk every night before sleeping; Now you just roll over and leave me gasping for air.

Enjoy your rest, I guess.

You’ve been working hard lately.

Enjoy your work. Enjoy your boss.

I know you two are close.

A: (Reading aloud to herself) Huh, Cromwell raises parliamentary forces to overthrow Charles the 11th - whoever the hell that is! Cromwell cites need to restore order - Ha! Likely story.

B: (Bursting in the door) I’ve really done it this time! I’m done for.

A: What are you on about? Shouldn’t you be at the ministry of taxation?

B: That’s the problem you see. I stole two pence — A: (Interrupting B) Two pence! If you’re going to steal from the Crown of England, you’d better steal more than two pence. Where is the money anyway?

You should give it to me.

B: Ahhh, well that’s an interesting question. I was walking back home... and I saw the most inviting pub... and it’s cold, and rainy, and foggy, and dreary — A: It’s England! Everyday is like that.

B: Yeah, well, as I had been saying: after I took the two pence, the constable was asking all these questions. I think they know it was me! The king, you know, king Charles — A: (Interrupting B) I thought we had a Queen!

Lone Journey Myles Scott

B: Well we do, but she’s not the important one — and stop interrupting. Anyway, Charles likes order. Very fastidious, won’t let anything go on under his nose. I wonder if I’ll be hung.

A: Well I don’t know if you’ll be hanged, but you’re certainly hung. (Winks at audience) New periodical arrives, which A begins reading.

A: Well, would you look at this. I don’t think ‘Ole Charles will care about losing a couple pence, seeing as he’s lost his head!

B: Lost his head! That bastard thinks he’ll be able to avoid paying his debts all because he lost his head. He still owes me wages — two pence! How am I going to get two pence now?

A: It’s even got a quote from the bugger: “I never even knew we had a Parliament! It doesn’t seem like they do anything” Ha, seems like nothing goes on under his nose, right?

B: Who’s the new monarch?

A: Well, Cromwell says he is, but so does the Queen, the King’s son, two cousins, a couple of uncles, and the bishop of Whitehall. How is it that there are so many claimants?

B: Well, all of the royalty marry their cousins, so everyone with a title could claim to be heir.

A: Oh hey, would you look at this. There’s a new book out.

The second book ever written: Paradise Found. It’s about some bloke called the bearer of light who used to manage heaven but got tired of it. So he sodded off and made hell, cause: “Even lawyers need a place” B: They’re calling it a story of a wonderful man who let it all

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MICHAEL SCHLARBAUM

THE SHANTITOWN OPERA HOUSE

Paint Brushes Dan Whaley

“The sound of the opera singer permeated the building in a rather disturbing and unnerving way; her high voice arching into crescendos and peaks so light and eerie as to sound almost inhuman. She whispered the breath of the world. She sang of death in high Italian. She set the scene. Her voice signaled for all there, the beacon: all was not well in the Shantitown Opera.�

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“Oh, Shantitown, dear Shantitown!” The oldest Opera in all of Withertonvillechesterthe oldest, and by far the most...shall we say “prodigious.” The voice of the host rang assuredly throughout the packed house.The people, all dressed in the latest and most stylish fare, splendidly showed the oddities of the area. The ladies dressed in the fashion of the High Folke: bearskin dresses, ostrich leg hats, all the rage, truly. The men decked out in silkworm carapace suits, their finery detailed, all the way up to the middle claw of a bear, and, if they were truly classy, the claw from the very bear their lady counterpart wore as a dress. The folke talked in high voices, their conversation floating languidly in that alltoo-familiar drone of the incessantly wealthy aristocracy so prevalent in the area.

Outside in the bristling cold of the brilliant December, their multitudes of servants hovered together, passed cigarettes, and shared lights.

Another story played under their evening smoke, however. It showed itself in their wicked and knowing smiles, their altogethertoo-joyous laughter, too high pitched, too long lasting for the frigid air of that cool December night. It escaped in the menacing looks in their eyes, the way they shot daggers into the night with mere glances... They had the look of a group up to something foul. The energy there was tense with expectation, an unremitting eagerness that can only arise after years of anticipation. It was palpable, but the wealthy folke, drowned by carapace of silkworm and bearskin, could not see it- could not feel it.

They walked as unknowing and ignorant wolves into a den of lions... Well no, not lions.

Ants. A den of ants, ants who have savored the meal to come for too long. Ants that have served under wolves for generations, but whose retribution had come.

Inside, the voice of the singer stopped abruptly as the host interrupted her mid note“Tonight,” he cried, “we see a classic!

Timeless it has been called, despite only being two years old.” The singer, looking first confused, and then alarmed, shuffled quickly off the stage.

The crowd gently chuckled in response as they slowly shuffled into their seats, taking

their time as only one of noble birth knows how. They plopped down on perfectly prepared cushions, each sat on by a boy of under ten years old six times, as was the tradition. Trays of opulent dishes flowed gently through the house- shrimp cocktail, butter poached lobster, soft shelled crab, braised lamb, seared bonein pork chop- the bones and shells littered the decadent floor, all normally to be picked up reproachfully by the dutiful servants of the Shantitown. The fingers of the crowd glistened in grotesque gluttony as their ever-protruding guts stretched just a bit further.

Obesity had become the latest fad of the aristocracy, the fatter the wealthier, or in the colloquial tongue of the time, the heavier the bride the heftier the hide, referring of course to the father of the grooms collection of animal hides, another way to display wealth. (The women of the time often jested the saying, the heavier the block- referring to the torso, the chest and gut- the fatter the— well perhaps this one is better left unsaid. You get the idea anyway; it was just a jest after all).

Outside the smokers looked gaunt in the December night. The moonlight cascaded down onto their faces to reveal the bags under the eyes, the stretched quality of their skin, the way their bones showed through at every possible point. They looked like scarecrows gently swaying in the frigid wind; sometimes the group would let out a visible and collective shiver, their rags inadequate for the midwinter freeze, their skin too thin to fight the cold.

“Don’t fret dear friends,” someone amongst the mass whispered, “We’ll soon be warm, and our bellies shall be full.”

Inside, the host continued his speech: “Tonight dear friends, we relive the tales and triumphs of the Estates General. Of those who broke free from decades of subjugation and overthrew, upheaved, against all odds...”

The people began to murmur; there was a general consensus that this was a departure from the normal stories of plush noble born who lived fantastic and fat lives, their every need met. The lights dimmed and faded to black as a voice cried out: “Let the play begin!”

The bright center light shined onto a man

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bowed forth, wearing a crown, under the sets of a guillotine. Another man, clad in ragged clothes of a refined beggar, strutted onto the stage and stood beside the dethroned King.

“For too long have we, the people, served under the unjust tyranny of this blasphemous aristocracy.” said the revolutionary, his head tilted forward, his eyes dark.

The man under the guillotine began to stir; his eyes stared frantically, pleadingly, into the faces of the crowd. He murmured and squabbled, but his words were indecipherable; a gag sat wetly in his mouth.

“For too long have we starved and froze while others grew fat and stayed warm off the fruits of our back breaking labor.”

The man under the guillotine cried out again.

He yelled. “RRRSDJKDWNJD” he pleaded, terror laced in his voice. “RMMMMNN” “MMMUUUNNNN” he gasped and shuddered again, falling silent.

“For too long have we bowed our heads under your tireless dominion.” the voice of the beggar droned, gaining momentum.

The man resumed life once more, pleadingly staring into the audience, his white wild hair visible under the prop crown.

“UNNNNNN!” he cried again. His eyes still staring off frantically, trying to make someone in the audience understand. The audience grew tense. The play was new, interesting, scary.

They loved it.

“MMUUUUNNNN” the man roared. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“The time for our retribution has come.” said the revolutionary darkly, a knowing smile gracing his visage.

Someone in the crowd stirred. She recognized the owner of the Shantitown, Edward Shanti, as the crowned king under the guillotine. She started to tell those around her, but it was far too late.

“Edward!” she cried out, and he resumed his screeching. “uuunnnn!.. UNNNNN!” he yelled, for the final time.

Several amongst the audience realized that he was screaming run just as the sharp blade dropped forth and severed his head. Blood shot forth across the front row of the audience. The room exploded into motion as the people in their carapace suits and bearskin dresses tried desperately to waddle out of

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the rows.

The voice of the revolutionary cried out over the fearful crowd, insanity laced into his words. He spoke with the fervent rage of a man gone mad.“The time for repentance has long since passed!”

Flame ran onto the trails of grease that spattered across the floor (remnants of that meal consumed before). It reached and climbed up the thick velvet curtains; it burned through the cushions. That fire blazed and tore through the pigs as they tried so desperately to escape. The flame licked its way up their sweating opulent bodies- to the grease from their fingers, up to their mouths. The aroma of searing flesh permeated through the smoking room, the blaze kicking up the temperatures to unfathomable heights; the folk, greased and aflame, pushed towards the exit, trampling over those who tripped along the way. The cries that erupted from the Shantitown on that vengeful night were filled with such terror that they could never be unheard.

Many fell on their journey towards the exit, lost to heat exhaustions and burns, trampled down and broken. Those that did make it charged out into the frigid and unforgiving December air, half cooked and smoking, only to find their servants standinghungrily- in a semi circle six men deep.

“Please!” one of half roasted pleaded.

“Don’t do this!” Another cried out.

“We can pay you!” a final voice whimpered.

Knives were withdrawn from hidden folds in the servants rags, and their faces, gaunt, corpse like, could be said to have grinned maniacally, without any bidding from them. Steel and iron flashed bright in the cool moonlight. They set down to do their grim work, their line closing forth on the caught group.

Behind them, the burning inferno of the Opera House, and in front of them the frozen blizzard of December, and the even colder gaze of a man who has decided he has had enough.

Knives sliced into soft, fatty flesh. Men became butchers and demons and all throughout the night maniac laughter and cries of horror rang through the town. The ant feasted on the wolf, the servant on the master, the starved dog on the pig.

Come morning, all was silent. The town, which had once felt overcrowded and overheated, felt cool. It felt thin.

Ode to Bacon GAVIN BURKE O bacon, Somehow you’re made of what everyone finds disgusting, But everyone loves.

Your thick, meaty cut saturated in salty, tasty fat makes my mouth water.

To a pig you’re a pain in the ass, But O how you work so well with everything.

With eggs, mac and cheese, brussel sprouts, pizza, burgers, chicken, scallops, hot dogs, rich cheddar cheese, and of course the divine and delicate grilled cheese sandwiches.

May the nutritional freaks never stop you from fulfilling the world’s cravings, O bacon.

The Social Pyramid BIAGIO DiSIMONE It May not Always seem fair That at the top there exists Less words, yet they are considered The highest and mightiest, controlling the Majority of the words. It gets harder to climb as each Level gets smaller, and less words populate the position on the scale.

As words are brought into our language, they are pressured to climb high, yet at the bottom is where most words are. They have as much love, passion, happiness, And reason on this paper as the words that dwell way up there. These words are just as important.

For to create a poem, unique and different words come together to constrcut beautiful sentences.

A few can’t hold 7 billion.

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Culture Intel Chen

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19

A Portrait Intel Chen

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Once in a Red Moon Troy Gibbs-Brown

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Chapter 1: Commute CALEB CLOTHIER Only one unit left. He quickened his pace, pushing through the dense pedestrian traffic that overflowed onto the pristine streets.

Without the cacophony of honks and the hum of combustion engines in the background, the behemoth city was so silent that it seemed abandoned. Of course, such a notion was ridiculous. New York was the biggest city on the continent, with some of the government estimates putting the population as high as one hundred million. But the quiet was still disconcerting.

He finally caught a glimpse of the park. The Lift was still in the station, with only standing room available. The crowds seemed to get worse with each passing day. He scampered into the spheroidal capsule just as the worn steel loading ramp began to retract. Never before had he run out of units, and he certainly did not want to suffer the consequences today. The Lift’s silent rotor began to turn.

His ear buzzed: it was time to sleep and conserve energy. His eyes shut instinctively, mechanically. He did not stir until he reached home.

Perhaps home is the wrong word. The shiny, metallic grey walls of his living quarters were not cozy like the houses of the past that he read about online. His bed was adequate, but not big or luxurious or comfortable. The energy-efficient lighting felt grossly artificial, and there were no windows to break the feeling of stifling insularity. During the population boom, the supply of construction workers was barely able to keep up with the endless demand for newer, better, taller buildings; quality inevitably fell victim to quantity. But at least the forty square meters were his. Some had not been so fortunate.

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The Lift stopped at his complex, and he hurried to floor number forty-two. The lock clicked as the central security system verified his biometric signatures. The front door popped open. In the corner of his eye he saw the charging headset light up. It detected his presence. He set up the contraption, attaching the metal nodes of the headset to the top of his shiny bald head, and finally felt the strange sensation of energy beginning to flow through his body. Thirty seconds passed, and his power reached the full sixteen units once again. He was back online.

Sometimes, during the strange ritual of replenishment, he wondered about the Others.

Not everybody had blindly accepted the Singularity when it came. The job shortages hit hard at first. Chaos and hysteria swept through the population. He often heard rumors about small communities living “off the grid” in northern Canada and parts of Siberia. But most people learned to live with the machines.

Efficiency skyrocketed as the workload of the world transferred to the algorithms. Science and technology advanced hundreds of years in mere days. Implants began just weeks later.

He sat at the table alone and ate –– the machines still had not discovered a way to reduce human dependency on food. Although he did not mind eating, he recognized its inherent uselessness. Why actually eat when implants can simply simulate the tastes and textures of the most delicious culinary concoctions in the world? He did not have the answer. Besides, who was he to disagree with the machines?

Chapter 1: A Light in the Black JOSE MARTINEZ Black. That was the color of love; the color of humor; the color of kindness; the color of night and day; the color of souls; the color of nature, of humans, of life itself. It was, too, the color none of us knew, for we were kept on the inside to stay away from the only thing outside—blackness.

“long were gone the cries of faith in humanity and optimism about the future. Only blackness remained.”

The year was 5 P.C (Latin: post circulum, meaning after revolution). Everything that lived was contained within what they called the spheroid, a quadric surface obtained by rotating an ellipse about one of its principal axes; in other words, an ellipsoid with two equal semi-diameters. Our purpose here was unknown to any of us—any of us of the lowest level, that is. There are a total of 100,000 breathers and 1000 watchers—this is what the blackness had reduced humanity to. All of the “breathers” were divided into four by five feet cells of white walls in which we slept. In the center of the room lay rectangular pieces of furniture, as well as the extractors; the cells were located in the lowest floor of the

spheroid. The “watchers” lived on the upper levels; no one knew what their jobs were, but no one knew what anything was anymore. One thing was constant and knowable, though: the sameness of each day. We, the breathers, did two things each day: eat and breath. We would wake up, instinctively reach to the extractor machines within our cells, connect the extractors to our noses (even before opening our eyes), and inhale and exhale. The only sound we knew was that made by our deep inhales and long exhales, all of which were done in unison (one big, deep breath. And each breather had about 60,000 of these each day—I counted). The only way we knew that there were other breathers was this sound produced by all of us. All extractors were connected to the center tube, which released our air to the world. Whatever it was that we produced was desperately needed by the world—it seemed to give life to it; these were our days; this was our job. Time had lost all importance; there was no need for time in a world where each individual had no goal. The watchers would hover over all of the machines, checking that everything was right, I assume. Communication among the breathers was forbidden (not that any one remembered how to communicate). It was considered a waste of breath, and every breath we took was to be saved for the machine. And every breath we took, they told us during the revolution, was to combat the blackness that lay outside of the spheroid; a blackness that we were all taught to hate, the reason why we now lived how we did.

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Once I, breather 31415 (known because it was the number on my right arm), was able to see the blackness. When looking out of my cell to the upper levels, I noticed one of the watchers enter through the only door in the spheroid.

Outside lay something I once knew—outside lay death. I realized that the blackness had killed everything. It was on this day, through this glimpse, that I realized the fundamental truth of life: all eventually returns to darkness. That we, the breathers and the watchers, were all that was left of what we once called humanity. I realized that long were gone the cries of global warming not being an issue; long were gone the cries of pollution not being something to worry about; long were gone the cries of faith in humanity and optimism about the future. Only blackness remained.

This way of life had become ordinary. Few remembered life before the revolution, for it seemed that our memories had been wiped clean. Few remembered the other colors—red representing love, green representing humor, blue representing innocence, yellow representing forgiveness—because black was all there was.

But I still remember them. I still have hope. I still believe that somewhere past the darkness, far, far beyond it, there lies something beautiful: life. And I remember reading once about a man searching for a green light in the darkness (The Great Gatsby, I believed it was called). I realize now that I am that man, that the green light lies somewhere out there in the black, and that I must leave and escape before my heart, too, becomes black and try to restore the life that was taken from all of us.

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“I still believe that somewhere past the darkness, far, far beyond it, there lies something beautiful: life.”

AfriCan

Amerikkkan TYLER CAMPBELL

Blue blood boils beneath the rigamortis of black bodies boisterous and belittled.

Black babies born wearing afros like halos, badly off balance.

Dipping and dodging backhands and bazooka bullets, blistering besides beer bottles and biological blunts.

Black bi-sexuals beckoning bloody bruises.

Beyond books and bibles pages, still beautifully bitter souls bound beneath broken bones, stories forgotten and never told.

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SIX GRAND CENSORSHIPS 3 Dread, despair, depression, they are my brothers in arms, escorting me to the precipice.

They don’t push, they only guide, limp-holding the strings.

Dread is the worst.

He whispers in the night, he reminds me with thin arms how the morning sun will rise, yet the day always holds nothing.

Despair is the sweetest.

His gentle arms catch me, almost like a cradle.

He sings a lullaby, affirming dread, I sleep.

Depression is the oldest.

One day I took him in, invited him to walk in my steps, to speak in my voice, his brothers trailing behind.

They say actions speak louder than words.

I don’t believe that.

Thoughts speak louder than all and they are locked in the head.

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ROBB SOSLOW

1 There is so much.

The ramblings and runnings and a thousand blurred words and tones and memories that stick.

They flare up like old pains.

There is so much.

I am drowning in this own life, I can’t remember any more.

Sleep comes quick.

The easiest escape of all.

5 These sacred moments, I have held and collected them.

Snapshots and memories, together they have made something akin to a man.

6 Shake it out.

Get loose.

Find the weight within your mind and lift it up by force.

Grasp it with both hands, brace your knees, dig in with your shoulder.

You can’t call for help, you have to get under this weight.

Balance it on your shoulders like Atlas, and finally, straining, heave the world up and out of the psyche.

It will roll to the side of the road.

There is no weight in my mind, I swear there never was.

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UNBORN

MICHAEL SCHLARBAUM

The moisture drips slowly down the leather jacket that sags on the coat hook.

Each droplet a tiny reminder of things Unspoken and unfeathered.

A man sits at the table in the kitchen, His pale hands wrapped around a hot mug; he shivers, and stares into the depths of the cup, his eyes now dry and red.

A woman, his wife, slumps next to him, her head laid heavily against his shoulder.

Her chest expands, collapses, in a heaving rhythm; Her tears form a puddle on the table.

They rise together,

Their hands clasped like a lock to a latch and make their way up the stairs.

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Heaven on Earth Myles Scott

VESPAE’S LAST

YESHWIN SANKURATRI

”Here I sit. Here in the peristylium, I was watching two fish adjoined; colored black and white, and bound together like yin and yang. I look to the side, opposite to my lavish garden and next to one of the many columns, and I gaze, chuckling at the sight of my new favorite painting: Venus on the half-shell. The picture shimmered in my line of sight, as pebbles thrown would ripple in a pond.”

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Here I sit. I only can sit. Years ago, I carried a twisted belief that I could never age. But now, here I am and the day has come where I only can sit, think, and smile. “Old age has finally taken its toll,” I thought. You know, it may have taken many moons but I finally realize the purpose of old age. The gods may not control fate, but they guide us all. Everyone serves a purpose. So I sit. I sit today as I have for the past 10 years. I sit, I think, I read.

My mother adored the bright-eyed goddess. She always felt that every time she would make offerings to the tireless child Zeus that her prayers would be answered. She told me that she prayed for me to be blessed with a similar wisdom to what her beloved goddess possessed. After old age had stricken, I began to question the goddess, “Why, Oh Why, after all that I have sacrificed, do you, the bright-eyed goddess, hinder me with old age?” Asking turned into begging, until one day the unthinkable occurred. While trodding outside my villa, I encountered an old man. He, like the mighty, wise cloud-compelling Zeus, had a fringe of river-silver hair that traveled around his spots of balding. He possessed a wizened face, which covered up his worn body and the wrinkles that bore deeply into his skin. The man had stories to tell, and his true wisdom danced upon his lips.

“The gods may not control fate, but they guide us all. Everyone serves a purpose.

So I sit.

I sit today as I have for the past ten years.

I sit, I think, I read.”

The aged man, as if god-sent, called out to me,“Young man! Ho there young Roman! Come near!”

The man told me to embrace old age. He told me to reflect on my life and to find the purpose that the gods had borne me into this world. Distantly, I stared into the old man’s blood-flecked eyes as I thought about what he had said; instantly, the stranger turned into an eagle flew away.

I was in the presence of the great goddess Athena. Pallas had shone her wisdom upon me. And it wasn’t all for nothing, because all my mother’s praying had payed off. And so after years of twisting and turning, the great goddess had put me to ease. She watches over me. She has always watched over me. Now, as I amble under the dim lamp lights in streets of Pompeii, I find myself reflecting.

In a matter of moments, I have reemerged. In an instant, a split second, I see the light. It may have taken years, but I have returned. I am strong. Nothing can stop me because I have gone within myself; I can see what has been missing. And so, I bound back to my villa on my glittering golden sandals, the purple-hued horizon turning black. For I knew she whose shield is thunder, the tireless one who sticks by her redoubtable bronze-shod spear would always look out for me. I am back.

Pegasus Magazine

If you want to draw dope stuff here’s the short and sweet version of the Garrett Process: Grab metaphorical shovel Dig yourself out of homework Zone out to legally (optional) downloaded music Grab a pencil and scribble until you’re satisfied.

Add ink and paint if you want, it’s your work!

— Garrett Johnson

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Taxi Myles Scott

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Right Side Up Troy Gibbs-Brown

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Valley of Ashes William Merhige

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Splintered Bow CONNOR LEES There sits Cupid Holding me captive He shot me all the time Sent me running After girls He didn’t shoot Dust coats Cupid’s bow He strokes his long, gray beard I reach to Cupid scars and fresh cuts over leathered skin Leaning towards me He dangles his keys over my hands

But I didn’t want the tears I didn’t want to drop Like a fine clay pot Only to shatter Across the floor But I’d die in here If I didn’t leave And it was cold here But in the cold dark I pictured you Beside me You gave me An unfamiliar rush Maybe this was different

Like a mouse trap my fingers snatch the keys away

You grabbed my hand As if to say It’s ok You’ll be okay

I sit alone I feel the cold gray stone On my back Against the wall

You trace words on my hand In some foreign language But I understand That you like me for who I am

Cupid now reaches to me It pains him to see Me finally with the key But I didn’t want to leave I didn’t want to be free

I left the cell Snapped Cupid’s bow On my knee And struck old Cupid with his own arrow

But I wanted that key I stared at the golden key For years and years

Splintered bow And bleeding Cupid My opinion on the past

Pegasus Magazine

Adventures at walmart JEFFREY BOZZI ‘Twas a beautay in Utah.

I was scrunning around Walmart.

My mother had told me to put the water back and to meet her at aisle eight.

So I skumped around the store, Making my way to the water aisle.

I glaced the pack of water down on the ground, And now I would hopefully return to my mother in aisle eight.

As my spickness picked up, I quickly returned to aisle eight, Only to find her not there.

I frelled loudly, which got attention from shoppers.

I tried to keep canquil, but my heart started to race as fast as a car in a Nascar race.

After awhile, I finally calmed down, but I still could not find my mother.

But then her presence was felt through a speaker, “If there’s a Jeffrey Bozzi, may you please come up to the front of the store?,” the voice through the speaker said.

And there it was.

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Yellow Petal Road Troy Gibbs-Brown

THE TRAIL ROBB SOSLOW He picked up the pants and kept walking.

A screen door slammed behind him and he flinched as a dog responded with a bark that echoed through the dusty town. He turned onto a wide dirt path that led out of the town and towards yellowed fields that were spattered with the cooking fires that hailed the sunset. Stepping into the stolen trousers, he checked the pockets before pulling his hands out, empty. With a sigh, he hitched up the trousers as they slipped off

Pegasus Magazine

his thin hips. His stomach grumbled, reminding him of how long it had been since he last ate. He stopped on the path and turned from side to side. He was surrounded by wagons and campfires while the scent of a hundred cooking dinners wafted through the frigid air. He shivered and drew his coat, which hung low and loose, closer to his shoulders. He stepped off the path and under the shadow of a smaller wagon.

Seeing the cookfire so close within the circle

of wagons, he crept to it and grasped the ladle that hung next to the pot. His hands shook as he lifted it to his lips.

“I wouldn’t do that, you red-skinned bastard.”

And the world went dark. *** He heard voices, gruff and low, nearby. He raised his head, but returned it to a coarse cloth as pain spiked through his skull. A inaudible moan escaped his lips as the back of the wagon broke open with sunlight. Hands reached for him and pulled him out. Some were soft, but most were the weathered, tough leather of men that had worked since they first came out of the womb.

“Do you speak English?” a deep, gravelly voice asked him. He responded with a weak nod. “What is your name?” the man growled, searching the coat with his large hands. “Woolrich?” the man questioned, pulling the tag out of the coat. Woolrich nodded, and the man placed something cool on his chest. Reaching up weakly with his hands, Woolrich felt a mug of water and managed to pour some in his mouth.

Opening his eyes, Woolrich saw for the first time where he was. Surrounded by men, women, and young children, Woolrich sighed and sat up wincing as the pain once again struck at his temples. The man closest to him reached out with his hand, and Woolrich accepted it, letting the man pull him upright. “The name’s Henry Cornwallis,” the man grumbled, “can’t believe I let my chowderhead wife convince me, but you’re with us. It’s since you’re a young’n and all. Don’t let that fool you into thinking you’ll get away with nippin’ at my dinner though. God right I rapped you right on the head for that one.” Woolrich fell back down on the burlap and mumbled out something that could be passed as a “thank you”. The darkness reached out for him and the world fell gray once more. *** Hazy, the nighttime bonfire pushed away the shadows. Woolrich could see his tribesmen around the bonfire, the ritual smoke from the pipes drifting lazily upward. The shaman hailed Woolrich’s ancestors, pleading them to join the

tribe as they celebrated Woolrich’s life. The shaman traced a circle around Woolrich’s body.

“Nature is a cycle, as is life and death. Bless this boy, and may the Nez Perce tribe live as long as he may live.”

Brightness and a sharp hunger snapped Woolrich out of his dream. He thought about the night his tribe left to fight for their lands.

Some were soft, but most were the weathered, tough leather of men that had worked since they first came out of the womb.

He remembered the screams and how he had escaped by playing dead even as his tribesmen were slaughtered around him. He could still remember his mother, eyes blank, next to him as he rose in the morning. Although the mud, mixed from blood and dirt, had long since been washed away, Woolrich could still feel it clinging to his skin. Shaking the memories out of his head, he rose, the pain in his skull merely a dizzying pinch. He followed his nose outside of the wagon. He could see Henry Cornwallis, a lady dressed in a wool blouse, and a young child around a familiar cookpot. The group looked up as Woolrich stumbled out of the wagon and Henry patted next to himself, dust rising softly from the barren dirt.

“Come grab a bite to eat. You’ve got a long day ahead of you. This here’s the neighbor’s young’n,” Henry said, pointing to the boy, “and that there’s my wonderful lady, Rosemary Cornwallis.”

“You’re the first savage I’ve met. Is it true that

43

you people don’t wear clothes?” the boy said, looking up at Woolrich with inquisitive eyes.

A croak, raspy with disuse, answered the boy, ”Only sometimes,” Woolrich smiled thinly.

He shakily sat next to Henry, and picked up the placed bowl in front of him.

“I know it ain’t the finest fare, but you can bet that I can do a miracle with what we got,” Rosemary said. By the time she had finished her sentence, however, Woolrich had already begun scooping out the gruel with the back of his spoon. Henry, who saw this, wordlessly refilled Woolrich’s bowl. Woolrich nodded at him appreciatively, and after finishing the second bowl the two stood up.

Although the mud, mixed from blood and dirt, had long since been washed away, Woolrich could still feel it clinging to his skin.

“You’ll be workin’ with me today. You’re too old to be workin’ with the kiddos, and I figure a savage like yourself should know how to hunt around these parts.” Henry said, walking away.

Woolrich followed. “Now I won’t arm ya, but I’ll teach the ropes of hunting on the go while the caravan is moving.”

“The caravan?”

Henry looked guilty. “The caravan, yep.

We’re headed to Oregon. Nearly there too, only a month left.” Woolrich’s eyes widened at the word “Oregon” and he tripped and fell back.

His legs were shaking as Henry pulled him back upward. “I don’t mean’ta enslave you or nothin’,

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but you was stealing from my cookpot that night.” an Irish brogue crept into Henry’s voice, “and I could see your ribs when you was asleep, I just figured you was one of them Indian refugees. Seems to me if I feed you and give you a bed, you pay with your trip in work and we’ll be happy.”

“I don’t want to go back there.”

“Back to Oregon? You sure you’ve got the right place?”

Woolrich looked at his hands and could imagine the mud from the night that was so many months ago, but Henry had already turned around. Woolrich caught up with him as they entered the main wagon area. In the early morning he could see the men up, likely headed to jobs not so dissimilar to the one Henry and himself would be attending to today. The other men refused to look at Woolrich, keeping their eyes to the dirt or to each other as they walked in groups. The women and children and however, stared at him openly. The women shot Woolrich distrustful gazes while the children gave him the same curious look that the neighbor’s child had given him this morning. Woolrich and Henry stepped away from the main complex, and Henry hailed the two men approaching them from the left.

“Morning Charles, morning Samuel. How goes it?”

“We’re off to collect fuel for tonight. We’ll spend as much as time as possible to escape those hair-splitting wives of ours,” said the man on the left. “The name’s Charles. Fancy meeting one of your kind this morning.” Charles stuck out his right hand, and Woolrich grasped it.

“Woolrich.”

“Like the coat brand? Damn, unlucky name.”

Charles laughed, and the four men continued on their separate ways.

The sun was setting by the time Woolrich and Henry returned to the moving camp. Woolrich carried a deer over his back, shifting it from side to side to keep the blood from clotting. They had spotted the deer separate from the pack, and Henry had unslung his rifle and beamed it right between its the eyes. A few wives cheered as the two carried the carcass into camp and the chil-

dren ran to the two men, asking about the hunt.

“It was all the savage. He knows these lands like no one else.” Henry said, smiling.

“It was Henry! He’s a deadeye with that rifle of his.” Woolrich responded with a light voice.

Rosemary and a few other wives took the carcass from Woolrich. Henry and Woolrich retired to the main campfire, both sighing as they finally got off their feet.

“Heckuva hunt, wasn’t it?” Henry said.

“Reminded me of home.”

Soon enough more men came home, some with food, some with wood, and some with nothing. They all gathered around the main fire as the women cooked, and soon the smell of a hundred cooked meals reached the noses of the men. Rosemary handed Woolrich a slab of venison, and Woolrich sat back and looked around.

He was reminded of the communal dinners of the tribe. He remembered when his elders sat around him, eating, laughing, and celebrating, much as the caravan was doing tonight.

It was dark when Woolrich returned to the Cornwallis’ wagon. Henry showed him his spot on the ground where he would sleep. Woolrich laid down on the ground and closed his eyes.

Reality struck at him in the darkness of the night.

Although he had been accepted into the caravan, he was the only one who was truly alone.

He was the final vestige of his culture, his ancestry, and his people. The threat of this all disappearing ate at Woolrich. This loneliness struck deep at the heart of him, keeping him awake and unseeing for hours before sleep found him. *** This pattern continued for weeks, and Woolrich could feel a sense of finality reaching him. It was the caravan’s inexorable march to Oregon, and Woolrich could not help but feel as if fate had tied him to that ground. Henry, Charles, and Samuel, whom Woolrich had grown close with over the last few weeks, did not understand Woolrich’s growing anxiety. The caravan neared Oregon, and Woolrich quietly suggested an area in which the caravan could settle. Slowly, surely, the wagons reached familiar lands. Woolrich lead them to a wide, high plateau. The grass had regrown, the mud unseen beneath it.

“It’s beautiful here.” Henry remarked, as the two of them stood side by side. The plateau overlooked a long forest and Woolrich could see the smoke and rough buildings of a nearby settlement. A deep satisfaction filled Woolrich. He had filled his land with people. Perhaps not the Nez Perce, but they were Woolrich’s people, and that was enough. That night, after dinner, Woolrich laid down. Sleep came easily.

A deep satisfaction filled Woolrich. He had filled his land with people. Perhaps not the Nez Perce, but they were Woolrich’s people , and that was enough.

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SHEA DENNIS

BOSTON AT 1:45 IN THE MORNING

End of the Way Myles Scott

“I step out into the damp night air, searching for something to alleviate my thirst.

I pass a group of MIT students, drunk, loud, and decked out in overpriced tank tops.

Inadvertently, they are blocking the sidewalk.”

Pegasus Magazine

I avoid them.

A pretty girl in a black, white, and orange patterned dress stands under a street light checking her phone.

I walk by.

A lone figure stumbles towards me in the distance. Not wanting any trouble, I step out onto Mass ave. It’s louder, more crowded. Less ghosts.

I pass car after car, person after person, all in groups, all having somewhere or someone to go towards. I ignore them, making my way to a convenience store. A few lights are on, the door says it’s open for another fifteen minutes. It’s locked.

The 7/11 across the street is still pouring out customers. I press the button for the crosswalk, think, and bolt across. There aren’t any cars left. I make my way into the back of the store, grab two Gatorades, and go to pay for them. The cashier isn’t talkative. I smile at the irony. I’m seeing ghosts and he’s working the graveyard shift. I give him my 64 cents change.

I start walking and make my way across the street. The homeless man is gone. His possessions still remain. I hope he’s ok. The last time I saw him was a year ago, I avoided eye contact, but still. I hope he’s ok. I move a street closer to the river, leaving my comfort in the crowds that never welcomed me.

The group of students has moved towards the bus stop, the smell of cheap vodka, weed, and cologne lingers. I take a pull from the “water” bottle they offer me. It’s full of some red sugary drink. The aftertaste burns my tongue. I give Jorge back his bottle.

The girl in the patterned dress is with a boy. His black shorts are a touch too tight, his short sleeve Henley is a bold move, not necessarily one I endorse. She is wearing his blue sweatshirt.

She laughs at his joke. I walk up and kiss her, smelling her silky hair for the last time. I hope she was able to find a home away from her home.

I walk back up the steps to the landing and hold the door open for a boy stumbling behind me. Our fingers touch. His hands are freezing. I drop my drinks and take off my jacket to wrap around him. I hold him close and whisper in his ear that it will all be ok. I give him some of my Gatorade and lay him down on the couch, wrapping him up in a blanket. Someone will be in for him soon. He won’t be alone forever.

I walk back outside and pick up my drinks. The street behind me is empty. The street lights dim and flicker, almost knowing the light they have to give won’t be received. I go back inside and turn off the light. I wish my demons good night and check in with my brother. He’s smiling with his girlfriend in his arms. I grab my phone charger and head out to the couch. It’s empty now.

Someone was there for him. They helped him along. He won’t be a boy forever.

I Hope He’s Okay.

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STORY OF

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ME

Alec Manko

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51

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Devin Weikert Senior Portfolio

George Rubin

Senior Portfolio

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Taj Bland Senior Portfolio

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David Bunn Senior Portfolio

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Zoe Blatt

Faculty Portfolio

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Cameron Ho0rfar Senior Portfolio

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COLOPHON All title text is FTY SKORZHEN NCV (Regular) of various font sizes; all body text is Optima (Regular) of various font sizes, excluding pages 9 and 33, which use fonts Bradley Hand (Regular) and Times New Roman (Regular) respectively; all art portfolio titles are Apple Chancery (Regular) 46 pt; the software used is Adobe InDesign CS6.

Awards: Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist 2013 Silver Medalist 2014 Gold Crown Winner 2014 Gold Medalist with 2 All-Columbian Honors 2015 Gold Medalist with 2 All-Columbian Honors 2016

Editors-in-Chief Jack Biddle Robb Soslow

Art Editors Satch Baker Gee Smith

Advisors Mr. Dan Keefe Ms. Taylor Smith-Kan

Staff Jonathan Hanson Mike Schlarbaum Intel Chen Khalil Bland Charlie Baker Yeshwin Sankuratri

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The Pegasus editorial board thanks the following: Dr. Nagl and Mr. Green for their support; The Haverford School English and Art Department faculty members for their encouragement; Dr. Ehrhart and the Poetry Club for their frequent contributions; The Haverford School Custodial Team for accommodating our late hours; Lulu Publishing for its press resources; Mr. Keefe and Ms. Smith-Kan for their extended patience while advising the meetings and all of our contributors for their hard work and limitless talent.

In an anonymous screening process, the Pegasus staff considers submissions and selects works for publication based on creativity, quality, maturity of style, and variety. Editors reserve the right to make technical corrections, although authors and artists reserve all rights to their individual works. The views expressed in this magazine’s published works are those of individual contributors.

PEGASUS

Will Russell | Will Rhodes | Michael Schlarbaum W.D. Ehrhart | Christian Sarian | Jared Hoefner Jack Biddle | Garrett Johnson | Troy Barnes Chris Williams | Myles Scott | Dan Whaley

Tyler Campbell | Robb Soslow | Yeshwin Sankuratri

Spring 2017

William Merhige | Connor Lees | Jeffrey Bozzi

Issue 33

Shea Dennis | Alec Manko | Devin Weikert

The Haverford School

Troy Gibbs-Brown | Caleb Clothier | Jose Martinez

Pegasus

Gavin Burke | Biagio DiSimone | Intel Chen

George Rubin | Taj Bland | David Bunn Zoe Blatt | Cameron Hoorfar

Pegasus | Spring 2017

The Haverford School Issue No. 33